In life and in DEATH

My Dear Beloved Dead,

So far this has been the most seductive affair. I’ve never found someone so committed, dedicated and addicted to me. Moreover, I believe it has lasted so long because you had started so early with me! It is said, the first time is a moment etched deep in our memory cells. This is a very special moment which can never be erased, forgotten and disagreed upon.

I am really thankful to your friend, who coaxed you hard in making me your own. I still remember it was his fifteenth birthday, a good three months later than you. He started by teasing you that you are not man enough. You were clueless, whether this is really a man thing. Torn apart between ideals instilled in you by your parents and ideals you were getting introduced to in the company of your so called progressive friends. Your mind was at war with your soul.

It was not just your friend alone but also the others present at the party who insisted you need to experiment once. You were immensely shy and reluctant about how to and where to start from, you demanded to be left in solitude. You were therefore pushed into a room, the door locked and in complete darkness you were both excited and exasperated to lose what you had held so precious.

You drew me closer. From top to bottom, your eyes preyed on me. The movement of your tongue was something; I could still not get off my mind. I’ve been a muse to many. But you were the best of all. You held me against you like one of those Hollywood stars who don’t waste a moment to turn romantic at the sight of a revealing fairer sex. I realised the indulgence had begun. Finally I was touched by the warmth of your red as cherry lips. You were no more untouched. Your friends had finally succeeded in making you do the man thing. You put your machismo in full display. Driven by the attitude of having achieved something that was so far forbidden, you threw open the door. You stepped out in style, looked at your friends and brushed your lips against me. I still can’t tell you the sensation that ran through within me. You had made me yours. Whatever happened inside was far more interesting than what you were planning to do outside. Everyone in the party could smell the experience; you have had in that locked room and in solitude, only with me around.

I was enjoying this inseparability. I appreciate the time, you gave me and to be with me. I still remember when your parents had gone out for a wedding somewhere out of the town. They had informed you of their two day stay there. You dialled up your friends and called them over for a night of passion, patriarchy and pleasure. Slowly in the middle of night, you threw open the window and pulled me so close that for a moment, I thought you will gulp me off. Caressed by the blowing breeze and pampered by the cool moonlight, you romanced me incessantly. Not once but you chose to have a good time at least thrice in one night. Your friends were red with envy. It was they, who had introduced me to you and now I had become an integral part of everything you did.

You put me first every time you had to make a decision. Your life had changed. The romance was in full bloom. Your academic performance kept deteriorating and you were completely smitten by me. You had no issues having anyone else in life because you were proud of my presence in your life. For every date that you made so special for me, you even mustered the courage to steal money from your dad’s lockers. But I grew your biggest fan and my love for you grew, when you blatantly lied to your mother while helping me sneak into your bathroom. You had always cherished the memory of having me in your bathroom. Finally that day, you did the unthinkable in the presence of your parents. You were unstoppable. The door was closed. I knew nothing could deter you from staying mine. I did hear the bang on the door. It was your dad. But you were lost in me. You didn’t really care about who was on the door or what the purpose of that bang was.

In your final year of college, the academic reports were not at all impressive. The principal called up your parents to tell them how miserably you had failed in three subjects. It was your principal, whom I still consider my biggest enemy. He never spoke about my presence in your life, while you were in his chamber. That bald headed gentle thwarter only spoke about you and me, when you stepped out of his chamber. I knew something was just not right. Whatever we had between us, seemed to end soon.

On our way back home, when you helped me hide quite intelligently in the car; I heard your father say something like, “I am ashamed of you being my son, my only child, my only pride. I gave you everything that you demanded or desired. And in return, you gave us disgrace. How could you do something so bloody frustrating? Not only have you performed below expectancy but you have ruined your future. You have to bid goodbye or you will have to face dire consequences.” More disheartening was your mother’s comment who said, “You are not the son I had given birth to.”

I was so shaken by these comments; I committed the mistake of making an opinion against you. My views started changing about you. At a time when I should have supported you by being cooperative; I started hatching a revenge plan. Those beautiful moments of togetherness in the past had started pricking me hard. I decided to make a rebel out of you. I am extremely proud of that moment, when some relatives had come to your place. Your father informed you that he is trying to find you a suitable match. From your bedroom, I could see how beautiful this prospective bride of yours was. Your eyes ignited. I started sulking. But I knew you so well by now that I was sure you will do something, which will jeopardise the situation. After shamelessly smiling at your so called fiancée, you rushed back to your bedroom and brought me out. Your father was stunned by my presence. Your mother closed her eyes. And the so called relatives were miffed to see you with me. I loved to break the girl’s heart with stars in her eyes. I was not ready to part you with her. And neither were you able to arrive at terms to sacrifice me for someone else. But that girl had something in her. You started seeing her quite often and left me sulking and craving for you. My feelings of avenging your ignorance of me started getting intense. One night, you arrived late. You were feeling proud that you had joined your father’s business and had a lovely girl by your side to be your wife. You looked at me and maybe for once you might have revived every moment you spent with me.

I am thankful to you that you didn’t abandon me completely. Every alternate night, you were the usual passionate self and performed the best with me. I was enjoying this ambiguity. You were still dedicated to me.

Finally my day of triumph arrived. Without letting me know, how sharply you got your engagement planned and organised. I was amused to see the same group of friends who had made us come together, now congratulating you on your so called animosity against me. Little did they know that I was going to play a major role in your downfall. Rings were exchanged, cake was cut, pleasantries exchanged and near & dear one’s hugged. I couldn’t have imagined a better moment to strike hard than this one. After dinner you bid adieu to your fiancée and her family. How romantic it was to see you murmur in her ears and promise her of making a call in the midnight. After they were gone, you turned to your friends and decided that you will take advantage of me for one last time. This time, it was not going to be in solitude but in public and in their presence. I waited patiently with deep breath. This was the last time; I was going to be with you. This was the last time; I will see you smile. The future that you were envisioning was going to transform into something so dark, it would only make me proud. You took me out of your bedroom and like a beast; bit my back by your sharp teeth. You seemed to be in no mood to have mercy on me. Rather than being gentle, you were harsh, heartless and horrible in pulling me close to you. Once again your lips touched me and before you could feel me pleasantly, I retaliated.

I triumphed by getting to see you fall breathlessly. You were feeling choked. I could hear the eerie noise of a cough that ejected out of your mouth. I was watching with pride the way you were trembling. Your eyeballs rolled and you cried for help. You kept screaming about a severe pain in your throat. You were gasping for breath. You were clueless and so were your friends. You couldn’t speak. You kept coughing. Your phone rang. It was your bloody fiancée. One of your friends answered the call and informed her that you have to be immediately rushed to a hospital. You were in pain. A pain that gave me joy! I wanted to see you die. I silently said to you, “How does it feel you idiot to shatter my dreams of a life of togetherness with you?” You didn’t even have the time to give me an angry stare. At the reception itself, I think the doctor must have made out what the problem was. As you were taken inside, I looked at you; how helplessly you were staring at me. Because this time, I was not with you but with a close friend of yours.

After a turbulent night, the doctor allowed your parents to enter your room. Luckily it was your friend, with whom I managed an entry into your hospital room. In one night, you had turned into my most helpless victim. When you saw me with your friend, you wanted to scream against what I had done to you. But did you even have the voice to do so? It was not me, who wanted to be in your life, but it was you who made me come to your life. I was kicked to see you lose your voice. You will no more be able to talk to that beautiful girl. And after what you have done to me, I will see to it that I keep you alive no more. I was thrilled to hear your doctor say, “He has developed throat cancer and his hope of staying alive is extremely next to impossible.”

Oh yes! Before I depart, let me tell you, “You are not my first victim. Millions of people around the world are my victims. And they will continue to be so, till the time they take a stand against me. But don’t worry; I’ve a strong lobby that will never let me die. So happy dying you bloody smoker!”

With lots of love and sweet betrayal,
Yours forever in life and definitely in death,
Cigarette

On account of NO TOBACCO DAY, I dedicate this blog post to the many victims who fall prey to the ill-habit of smoking cigarettes. Nothing to gain from this habit, cancer is something that is the only definitive cure in helping them get rid of this habit.

-vociferous
(Inspired by a an experimental piece of writing, which I had co-written with my creative buddy)

(S)tumbling back ;)

My last post on my own blog was on January 10, 2011 at 2.10 am in the morning with a title very close to my heart - LOVE (Part 2: A feeling that leaves you incomplete). Today it is May 25, 2011 and it is sharp 1.10 am that I’ve started writing my new post. Four months is long time enough, to make the followers of my blog; believe or rather grow convinced about a ‘not-so-burning’ reality that I might be lethargic or disinterested in reactivating my most passionate habit/hobby of blogging.

The wait has not been easier. I was on pursuit of the right kind of inspiration. I just did not want to start writing all over again without a specific purpose or subject in consideration. In between the two posts, a lot has happened!

I traveled twice to my home town. I met with an accident that rendered me immobile for one whole month. I visited two most beautiful coastal towns of India. I watched movies – some insensible and some definitely sensible. I drove long miles on my bike. I reconnected with friends. I disconnected with my unknown self. I revived my passion of writing my favorite diary every night (no matter, how tired I am). Discontinuation of long hand writing has made me realize that I take a little more time to write with an ink pen in my hand. I made new friends. I danced all night with someone I met for the first time. I sung. I jumped. I drank. I swam. I dreamt. I read. I did everything that was good enough to act as a trigger to make me write again for my personal blog.

I would still say this momentary interval is far more less than the one I had taken between March 2008 and October 2008. Till date, I am unaware what had gone wrong with me? Thanks to my mom and my friends and definitely followers of my blog, who shook me up and made me reboot my mind. There I was writing again. But this recent gap of four months was a bit self imposed one and also a bit helpless one. A lot was happening around me. I also developed a new kind of addiction for facebook. Ever since I’ve subscribed to sms updates for uploading my status on facebook, it has been a joyride of sorts for me. One of my Delhi based friend rightly commented on my facebook wall – “one of the most avid facebookers that i've known”! I too realized how much I had grown an addict of the social networking phenomenon. Not only did this comment set the pace for my thinking process but it also made me wake up to the fact that its been long I had given up blogging or rather sacrificed blogging for facebooking.

I had also stopped visiting twitter. Some of my friends once again inquired – Where are the tweety days? To which, I had no reply. Thereafter began my pursuit for inspiration. The biggest bank of inspiration has been the Indian Railways. Traveling by the train has been my most enjoyable experience ever since my childhood days. But those were the dreamy days of traveling well-protected with my mother or father. Having attended adulthood and to earn my livelihood when I started traveling alone, my perceptions shattered. The travelers no more seemed friendly. It was painful to revive good old memories of being called by an uncle to be on the window. Now the window seat or a vacant space near the window had suddenly become a reason of everyday wars/battles/conflicts. A reason to board the train while in motion. A reason to badmouth a newcomer. A reason to wake up early and rush… It is almost thirteen years of continuous travel and evolving experiences. The latest threat I issued to an irritating passenger was - "Itna berehami se todunga tujhe ke tere purzo ka judna bhee mushkil ho jayega...” In the past 13 years, I have also turned into a keen observer of my fellow passengers. That keenness came handy recently when I needed inspiration to start rewriting posts for my blog. I have fifteen odd stories that are real and evolved during train journeys. The characters are real and extremely interesting to be known. I did overhear some conversations a bit to add realism to my writing. I am simply dying to present the bouquet of (now) 15 stories. So far the count is restricted to 15. Maybe the number might increase but not decrease.

Coming back to blogging seems like homecoming from a distant destination after a long time. I also am looking forward to reactivate my sleeper blogs on travel, story telling and creativity. They have been lying unattended to such an extent that at times even I forget to have created them for personal creative satisfaction.

Reading too has helped to a major extent. Daily editions of Hindustan Times, monthly subscription copies of OPEN Magazine, Sunday MidDay and E-Books have enriched my mind, my soul and my vision to restart blogging. And also a big thank you to the Internet for being my bed partner. I was missing blogging so much that I even wrote a status - Don't ask me who I am... Maybe I've become someone else. Someone who seems to be a complete stranger, even to me! Comments to which were simply interesting!

I know even though my desire is to end up writing at least one post for my blog every day. It is close to being impossible. Other than blogging, I’ve to travel to office every day to again get my mind indulged in the art of thinking, writing and creating.

The tentative topics that I shall be soon readying for release online are as follows:

TRAINSPOTTING – 15 (or more) human stories of train travelers

TO MY MOTHER… Not on Mother’s Day! But every day.

A TALE OF TWO SISTERS – A professor and an ad executive

THE DRAWER OF SUBDUED MEMORIES – Personal something’s

AN OLD HABITAT REVISITED – Neighbors who always cared for

TWO LIVES – Kool Kappy & Avatar

Finally…
Sitting by the banks of River Ganges in Kolkata
Walking alone on the Marine Drive in Mumbai
Visiting the Jehangir Art Gallery with a very special friend
Driving through the Bandra-Worli sea link
Silence of a creative buddy

Has paid off well. I am back to the bloody old good habit of BLOGGING.

See you soon...

- vociferous

LOVE (Part 2: A feeling that leaves you incomplete)

Ever since Mac had known Flavia, he had found her to be ambitious, vivacious and positive. Mac never could forget the moment when he had proposed Flavia. She was just another girl in the fashion school with stars in her eyes that had entered NIFT, to make it big some day as a fashion designer. It was on one of the many monthly party’s that Flavia had confided in him. She had expressed to him that she would rather wear some glamorous dresses designed for her in stead of spending hours thinking and designing them for some one else. From that day and thereafter Mac and Flavia kept getting closer. On a Christmas Eve in Goa, Mac proposed to Flavia with his friends in full attendance. On the very next day that is on December 25, 2006 they got married. For the first beautiful night they spent by the beach, Mac and Flavia conversed endlessly and became one beneath the silent skies.

May 12, 2008 Mac eagerly waited for the Cathay Pacific flight to touch base. He was carrying a special gift for Flavia. She had by now become an international sensation. Her very first movie had won 12 Golden Globes. In the Oscars, they ruled. Every newspaper screamed that Flavia’s debut was a success and the movie had put India in the centre of a global debate for being represented as the hotbed of experimental films in future. Mac was enjoying every moment of it. The Indian paparazzi though not strong kept their cameras ready to capture the first glimpse of Flavia. Mac thought to himself, “She was always a star. And I am now a star husband. Wow”. Lost in his thoughts, Mac suddenly got pushed away. The flight had landed. The media broke all barricades. There was a chaos like situation. The gift that Mac carried had disappeared. Before he could go in search of it, he looked at the TV screen which was flashing live images of Flavia and her co-star who was 4 years younger to her. The reporter said, “First they were rumored to be a couple. But this kiss out here depicts the seriousness of the bond they share”. Mac was shattered.

Next day morning, every newspaper carried the same story – Flavia & British born Indian actor Jack Mehta make their relationship official. Mac read through them. One of India’s most prominent news daily carried a full page photograph of Flavia proclaiming in bold letters – I WAS NEVER MARRIED, I AM SINGLE AND HAPPY TO BE WITH JACK. The story emerged like a bubble, the media raised it like a storm, Mac gave up the hope, Flavia signed some more Hollywood films and Jack Mehta went public with his relationship with Flavia, their intimate photographs & secret videos. Three months later, Mac’s body was found hanging from the same hotel room; he had once spent the night together with Flavia in Goa on their wedding day. The filmy scandal seemed to have died a silent death. But Pritish never could get out of his mind.

Pritish Ganguli was going through a rough patch. Mac’s story brought back memories of a past, he had never wanted to imagine about. He was amused by the similarities or rather the situations. He said nothing. He clutched the paper declaring Mac’s death and stared at the four page story for hours. July 15, 1998; Pritish was in a party with his friends. The party was a modest one at one of the finest Udipi restaurants close to Matunga station. A select few of his college friends were with him. Nakul was his closest and best friend. Along with Nakul were Satish, Rageshwari, Adhyuman and Vidula. Almost everyone knew Pritish had feelings for Vidula. Both had never denied or defended any rumors about them. Vidula always was a bit more confident. Her father was associated as an active member with a very famous political party. She was immensely beautiful and a stern believer in Maharasthrian culture. Pritish thought this was just the right moment. After every one left, Pritish request Vidula to wait for some while to give him company for a dessert. Nakul along with Satish waited outside the restaurant. Pritish slowly held Vidula’s hand and popped the question, “Will you marry me?”

Stunned, surprised and speechless; Vidula had tears in her eyes and she just left the restaurant in a jiffy. Seeing her coming out in tears, Nakul was worried and Satish a bit outraged. For days, Vidula and Pritish didn’t speak to each other. One evening, Vidula called up Pritish to meet up. “My father would never agree to this”, said Vidula. She cited reasons of a culture divide. She felt Pritish being a Bengali; she might never be able to adjust. And her father would never agree, who was known to be a bit of a disciplinarian. Finding no way out, Pritish called up Nakul. Satish was a witness to the conversation Pritish had with Nakul and stepped ahead to lend a helping hand. Like a true friend, he called up Vidula and asked her to meet up at the same restaurant, Pritish had proposed her. As planned, Pritish and Nakul joined later. For more than two hours, possibilities, probabilities and plans were discussed. Pritish went home satisfied that Vidula seemed to be at ease. Thereafter Nakul, Satish, Pritish and Vidula started bonding thick. Pritish being employed started getting busier by the day and restless by evening. Nakul got busy with his studies for banking exams. Satish set out on a search for job too. Vidula started helping her father’s political endeavors.

Three months passed away, Pritish and Vidula had kept in touch over phone. But whenever Pritish requested Vidula to meet up, she turned it down. As the time for election of the party president’s post started drawing closer, Vidula continued getting more untraceable. In the midst of all this, Satish had made his way to the good books of Vidula’s father. One day as Pritish waited to grab a smoke by a cigarette shop, he saw a rally passing. Vidula’s father was waiving his hand at people around. Vidula was sitting beside her. In front of the car were dancing two figures – Satish and Vidula’s brother Vishesh. He was stumped by the development. Vidula didn’t answer any of Pritish’s calls. Satish didn’t have a phone. Vidula’s brother Vishesh hated Pritish for being in continuous pursuit of fame. Pritish continued getting restless. Till one day, he stood outside a Cineplex to catch up a smoke. There was too much rush around him. The 3 pm show was over. People had started walking out of the Cineplex. He watched every one around. As he stood their staring, Pritish was stunned to find Vidula boarding a rickshaw. Before he could call out her name, he saw Satish running behind her and quickly jumping into the rickshaw. As he moved back, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Vidula’s brother stood behind him and remarked, “They are in love, and you better make your way mister Bengal Tiger”.

Outraged, Pritish called up Nakul. By a silent lakeside Nakul and Pritish sat speechless for two hours. Nakul finally mustered some courage and told Pritish, “Vidula and Satish want to get married”. Nakul told him how while Satish tried brokering peace between Vidula and Pritish had fallen for her. Vidula’s parents had already accepted Satish as their prospective son-in-law. And Vishesh was too fond of him. Pritish was shattered because he got to know all of this from Nakul. Satish was Nakul’s childhood friend.

“I shall quench my thirst with his blood”, yelled Pritish. After a while, Satish emerged from behind Nakul and told Pritish, “I will die but I will not allow you to ever get Vidula’s love”. In the next three months, Pritish learnt how Satish’s assurances of brokering peace was nothing was just a ploy to win over Vidula. He had fallen in love with her the first day; he had seen her at Pritish’s party. In 2001, Vidula and Satish got married. On Nakul’s insistence, Pritish attended the wedding. On climbing the dais to congratulate the couple, Pritish and Satish came face to face. Pritish said nothing to both. As he climbed down, he heard Vishesh saying, “You know that is Pritish. He really tried hard but failed miserably. I shouldn’t be saying this but I think, I would have liked Vidula to get married to some one like him. I feel so sad for him”.

Pritish abandoned the thought of love while Nakul moved ahead with life. He bagged a prestigious job in a reputed bank. After his parents were certain that their only child was earning well, they found a perfect match for him in Aruna Keny. An engineer by profession, she was ready to accept Nakul as her husband. Nakul never had a scandalous reputation. Clean, composed and in control; Nakul was a happy man. Pritish stood by his friend’s side. Nakul left for his honeymoon after three days. He was very happy about his trip to Shimla. Aruna looked stunning. After two days since Nakul left, Pritish sat smoking and writing about how Nakul’s wedding was a beautiful union. As he kept smoking, he didn’t realize night had ended and a new day had begun. He switched on his mobile phone and received the first call from Satish. He was outraged again. He didn’t want to answer the call but somehow he said, “Hello”.

“Aruna is no more”, screamed Satish over the phone.
“Shut up, you b@#$%”, replied Pritish.

After 24 hours of the phone call, Nakul walked out of the airport and broke down in Pritish’s arms. Aruna had suffered a brain hemorrhage and had succumbed instantly while they were out on a site visit. Pritish cried like a child along with Nakul. Within a span of six months, Nakul’s parents got him married to Kalpana against his wish. Kalpana worked with a finance solutions company. In six months, she turned Nakul’s life into hell. Both filed for a divorce while Pritish stood witness to the hara-kiri.

Stella Roy was the first every Bengali Catholic girl, Pritish had ever met. Pritish was going through divorce and depression. Nakul was going through a divorce. Nakul never went out looking for love. Pritish had found love in Stella. Both started courting each other. But Stella had a past. She was nursing a broken heart and a failed relationship. Nothing mattered, Pritish just wanted to get married to Stella. One night as he was leaving office, Pritish’s mobile rang. The voice on the other end introduced him of being Stella’s jilted lover. He declared of having consumed poison and Pritish heard Stella screaming on the background how she still loved her jilted lover. After two days, Pritish met Stella and bid good bye to her. She boarded the train. She was in tears. Pritish never looked back.

Six years later, Pritish and Nakul found themselves in Goa vacationing together. Both were single, fighting divorce, drinking, smoking and driving. Pritish held up the cigarette, buried it in the sand and declared – THIS IS MY LAST. Nakul never smoked, drunk or flirted with woman.

Pritish arrived home back to his mother. He stumbled across an old telephone diary and fished for Stella’s number. He dialed her residence number. Her mother informed that she was no more staying with them but was now married to Rakesh Lohar, had converted to Hindu and had a mobile number. Pritish called her up to wish her on her birthday. Stella was surprised to hear Pritish speak to her six years later. Pritish never called her up again. Till one day, Pritish sent out a group sms thanking everyone for being a friend and one of the sms got delivered to Stella. She couldn’t control her urge, called up Pritish and both decided to meet up. At Café Coffee Day, Stella sat sobbing over Pritish’s shoulder narrating him the story how Rakesh had turned her life into hell. Both departed on a note of coming together. Pritish found Stella a good lawyer to take up her case. Pritish then took her to the church, where Stella promised to be with him forever. Four months passed by, Stella never spoke to her lawyer and one thing that got Pritish amused about her was Dilip. He was her office colleague. She never had lunch without him and they both exchanged gifts. On being questioned, Stella lost her cool. Pritish chose to remain silent over the issue. Stella’s lawyer called up Pritish and told her how Stella had ignored her phone calls and was not ready to allow a certain Dilip to be cross examined for her divorce proceedings. Frequent fights kept taking place between Pritish and Stella. One fine day, Pritish decided to end it once and for all. A few more months went by. Stella and Pritish got together once again to rekindle the relationship. But Pritish realized how Dilip had gained control of Stella’s mind and life. Rakesh, her husband had long lost the battle against her obsession for Dilip.

Nakul decided to stay single. Pritish seconded his opinion till he came to know about Ishika. He came to know her through a common friend. Ishika had a painful past quite similar to that of Pritish. Very few knew why Pritish’s wedding had failed. The girl he had married had turned out to be a schizophrenic. Ishika and Pritish started chatting regularly. And one day Ishika expressed her desire to take the friendship ahead. Pritish wanted to keep his side clean. He ended up telling Ishika the story of his life. He was deep into a legal tangle over his divorce. Ishika was already over with her divorce. She realized that Pritish being a rigid individual, the possibilities of a divorce didn’t appear soon. Sophisticatedly she started ignoring Pritish and one fine day sent him an sms saying – WE HAVE NO FUTURE TOGETHER.

Flavia was sent behind bars for having posed objectionably for a fantasy magazine meant for men. Nakul’s case was drawing closer to an abrupt conclusion. Stella had finally found true love in Dilip. Pritish had joined an MNC. Ishika climbed to the position of a Vice President in Corporate Relations. Satish and Vidula welcomed a baby boy.

Pritish envisioned freedom. He joined the MNC and was happy till one day he received a call from an NGO. The voice on the other end introduced herself as Shona. On inquiring, she confirmed to Pritish that was her name. Pritish liked her voice and the confidence in it. He ended up not just conversing but promising a certain amount towards the NGO. Somewhere deep in his heart, Pritish wanted to know Shona. He eagerly waited for her call to come. But that never came. So he sent a sms to the number, he had received the call from. Finally she replied. Both became friends. Shona was a dreamer. She was in love, she was in pain and she wanted to get single again. Her childhood love was taking her nowhere and Pritish wanted to just fall in love with her. Finally one day, Pritish expressed himself. Shona being mature lent an ear to him and quietly smiled. They both found each other on one of the world’s busiest social networking sites. And then Pritish came to know about Shona’s sister Prema. Like Shona, she was a dreamer, a lover, a sister and a doting daughter. Pritish kept repeating his request to Shona. But Shona had some other dreams. The age difference between Shona and Pritish just acted as the reason to mark the beginning of a never ending friendship.

Today Shona and Pritish are best of friends. Prema is looking forward to get her book of love letters published, which she has written generously for her boyfriend. Pritish only prays that this friendship never ends. Nakul continues to be single and so does Pritish.

Flavia is now a big name in Hollywood. Jack Mehta is no more dating her. Pritish is sitting on a bench, clutching a newspaper with a headline printed in bold – LOVE IS LABOR LOST. He folds it, puts it in his bag and smiles at the kid sitting by his side. He asks the kid, her name. She replies, “My parents call me Love. What do you wish to call me?”

Pritish looks around and somehow guesses the kids parents. As he nears them, he hears the lady saying, “After three years of love, five years of marriage and a child like Love, you mean to say you love me no more! And now that you have decided to end this, let me tell you I am in love too.”

Pritish realizes – I am single and love did come my way but after listening to this how it just left me feel incomplete.

- vociferous

LOVE (Part 1: As an emotion, an experience and an enigma)

It needs no prefix, no suffix.
It needs no introduction, no description.
It needs no reason, no aim.
It needs no time, no notion.

All it needs is a HEART…

To write about,
To think about,
To spread about,
To paint about,
To discover about,
To imagine about,
To create about,
To converse about,

LOVE is…

The purest emotion in universe,
The unchallenged truth in ages,
The most treasured relationship of centuries,
The only emotion that possibly has no substitute!

And if you haven’t felt/realised the power of love,
Try this out…

Just when the world mutes its chaos and goes silent,
Place your hand on your heart.
The pounding that you sense,
Is not just the heartbeat…!
But the humming of a tune only you can listen.
The tune is that of love and longing.

Keep listening to your heart, it hums often.
No one in this world has remained ungifted by this hum.

Not a single legendary poet, writer or the greatest and the unheard of personalities have remained untouched by the magic of Love.

The only difference is they interpreted it differently.

Shakespeare infused the ingredients of crime in it. Tagore blended it with jealousy. Sarat Chandra enriched it with loss. Ghalib sung it in his ghazals. Khusroo described it in his nazams. Rumi wrote it often. Sufis spread it as a message to bring about peace, unity and integrity.

Described in most beautiful words, depicted in most beautiful situations and often demonstrated with purity; LOVE certainly is beautiful.

Love arrives unannounced. It makes no sound. It just happens. Just when you think, there is no one to look up to; it is always advisable to look around. Perhaps an unpredictable smile, perhaps a harmless whisper, perhaps a surprising wink, perhaps a request… kicks starts the chemistry.

Love is certainly chemistry with no formulas. Written in many languages, understood through many signs and symbols; it means one and the only thing - Love. Nothing changes around Love. But Love changes a lot around you. You start liking what you never liked. And you do what you always wanted to.

It is an experience; every one goes through in life. And some go through it several times. But Love is felt only when it comes straight from the heart. Pretensions never help. Love doesn’t demand promises. Understanding is what it demands. Faith is what it craves for. Trust is what it prophesises.

Love is not easy; love definitely is difficult but not impossible. Like the wise men say, “Falling in love is very easy but shouldering its responsibility is tough”. Not every one is able to triumph over the odds. Some hearts break even before their heartbeats become one. Some desires die even before they start aspiring.

Love is a journey to be fulfilled and not left half way. Some board a train and disappear forever. Some wait at the platform to see the train come back. The train keeps coming back, but true love never takes a ‘U’ turn. But true love does take the effort to come back one day and smile straight on your face. It does happen. Bitterness doesn’t come in Love without a specific reason. There are lot of things, which keep acting against love to make it bitter.

Some make fun of love. Some claim it to be farce. Some blame it to be a waste of time. But love in itself is like life. It breathes, it survives, it jumps, it collides, it slips and it balances.

Love is to be respected and not to be regretted. The mind has to stay open to embrace Love. The heart has to be spotless to feel the magic of love. God created it, humans borrowed it. Some turned it into gold. Some transformed it into a palace of grief.

Over the years, the dimensions of love have changed. With time, love has become cup of coffee which is over poured. It is sad that some have made love an excuse to climb ladders of gains.

Love isn’t a game and it is not about gains for sure. It is sometimes enigmatic. It also becomes difficult to make out whether it is true love or at times just infatuation. When a heart breaks, humans alone don’t shed tears. Love sits by the side and cries equally. Love has no roof over its head. It lives in hearts. And when hearts break, it wanders homeless.

So if love comes your way, don’t shut the doors of your heart, don’t bolt the windows of your mind, don’t pull the shutter of your ears and don’t deceive yourself… Just let it happen. Because over a period of time, you will realise LOVE IS SHEER MAGIC, WHICH TRANSFORMS LIFE INTO SOMETHING WORTH LIVING FOR…!

Love is special, it never goes away…
It walks beside us every day, every moment…
Unseen, unheard,
Still near, still special…
Still missed and still very dear,
Love craves for a roof over its head…
Don’t abandon it, don’t turn it away.
Embrace it, pamper it and make it your own…

Because LOVE IS BEAUTIFUL, WHICH MAKES LIFE BEAUTIFUL…
If you love somebody, say I LOVE YOU.
And even if your love is met with denial, go ahead and say I STILL LOVE YOU.
Something which might not happen instantly might happen someday…

So… Live, Love and Long for more Love to come your way…

- vociferous

MY 100TH POST

Before I start, I would like to quote Gulzarsaab.
Reproduced below are the translated lines of his most renowned song from the movie ‘Parichay’. Sung by the eternal Kishoreda and composed by the immortal Panchamda. I can relate a lot to this song. Because this is how, I arrived to my blogging hobby too.

The song goes…

“Musafir hoon yaaron… na ghar hai naa thikana
Mujhe chalte jaana hai; buss chalte jaana”

The translation is equally sweet… which now a part of my profile posted on facebook is given below:

I am but a wanderer, my friends
No home, no address
Wandering is all I am here to do

Where one road stops
Another joins
When I turn
The road too
Curves along with me

I nestle
On the wings of the wind
I am but a wanderer

The day takes my hand
Brings me here
The night beckons me
And calls me there

The dusk and the dawn
I have as my friends
I am but a wanderer

I too am a wanderer.
This wandering of mine began in the year with the first blog entry I posted.

Today is November 18, 2010.
It was September 19, 2005 when I had posted my first blog entry.
Blogging was a whole new world to me.
In bits and pieces, in scribbles and doodles, in cartoon strips and pullouts, in emails and smses; somewhere I read something about blogging.
The entire world was talking about how blogging was turning out to be the next big phenomenon.
Some were doing it for a social cause.
Some were posting entries for a strong purpose.
Some were revealing their fantasies.
Some were unveiling secrets, the media would use to fill tabloids or flood the television screens.
Unknown truths were being revealed.
Revolutions were being fuelled.
Speeches were made available.
To sum it up, the Indian Superstar Mr. Amitabh Bachchan too got bit by this bug.
Then followed, Aamir Khan.
Facebook, Orkut, Twitter… From macro to micro; blogs were happening.
But I was already on it.
The first entry of mine was a reproduction of an article that had got published in a Bengali bulletin, Pratibimba (The Reflection); which is still available on demand. A bald headed gentleman, supported by his very loving wife still continues to publish it. His labour of love, his wife’s dream of a mouthpiece pulled out the writer in me. They both made me write for their magazine. I charged them nil. But thanks to their love and support. Thanks to every effort they made to make me write for them.

But I wanted to stop writing for them. I was not for charity.

The reason or rather reasons were simple… I was restless, I was unabashed, I was stubborn, I was unstoppable, I was impatient and I was faceless. All I wanted to do was to start writing in a way that made me feel good about. Every word that I brought together with other words to form a sentence intrigued me to keep going ahead and produce paragraphs that I would enjoy reading, others would enjoy reading.

At the same time, there was anger in me… Immense anger. My anger has yet not died down.

This anger was rooted in my own deeds, own mistakes and decisions (the wrong ones); I made on my own. I was missing somebody who had relied on me but I never did justice to that faith & hope. It took me seven long years to find that person again but sadly I haven’t met with forgiveness. Because I have failed again.

And I was and am still in hatred of the person who changed the course of my life forever. If that person happens to read this blog, I have no qualms in declaring that betrayal, deception and backstabbing still doesn’t go down very well with me. I might be a changed person today but am still outraged and if provoked, would avenge. I can’t forgive and forget. I can’t hate and smile. I can’t do and deny. I can’t hide and run. I can’t react and repent.

There were lot of things, thoughts, tribulations, torments & tarnished talks, which pushed me to the edge. I was feeling choked, suffocated and breathless. I felt someone was tightening the noose around my neck. Someone was not too happy to see me happy. My successes had started meeting with massive failures. My ascent was poised to meet with a steep descent. And finally I jumped off the cliff, got stuck in between and screamed – HELP! An unknown, unseen entity emerged from nowhere and prompted, “If you are so angry, express it. If you are so aggrieved, cry out. If you are so bruised, salt them. If you are so determined, be firm. Be a Vociferous. Shake yourself up. Shake others up. YELL OFF”
Thus was born my alter ego, my new identity – VOCIFEROUS.
And Vociferous made up his mind to create http://www.bengalsurprise.blogspot.com
I was born and brought up in Mumbai. I grew as a Mumbaikar. And I still am a Mumbaikar.
Political correctness or incorrectness doesn’t bother me. What bother me are faces, minds, mouths and ears with rotten attitude dripping from them.
I named it bengalsurprise, because life is surprising. I am a surprised Bengali. So bengalsurprise means, a surprised look at the world because the world, the universe and everything else leaves the Bengali in me surprised.

Writing this 100th blog was not that easy. Inspiration is what I had waited for long. Finally it arrived few days back. A very special friend, a very special person in my life kept telling me, asking me in fact pushing me – Write or I will never read your blog. Whenever my friend kept going on the blog, my missing 100th entry proved to be a dampener. Yes, very right… I hadn’t posted anything for the past few months. The last entry was somewhere in the month of July and that too when it had started raining in Mumbai. And even two days back, in this month of November rains have taken control of Mumbai.

Tears of happiness roll out of my eyes.
Thrill of writing such a long piece leaves me wanting to write more.

A logo was definitely what I had thought of and I designed it. It is not a serious kind of a logo but a celebrating kind of a logo, a light hearted one and again a ‘feel good’ kind of a logo.

The process of ideating my 100th blog entry was very different.
I first thought of choosing all the alphabets and comparing it with what made me become a blogger. The mind just wasn’t too happy with this idea. So finally over the last three days, endless telephonic conversations, long hours of reading, endless musical moments and a determination to fulfil a promise finally brought the ‘Eureka’ moment. I said to myself, I shall write randomly in a nonlinear format. I shall write what comes to my heart first, then gets transferred to my mind and finally gets transported on my laptop.

My fingers are running faster. My mind is thinking faster. And in the next few hours, I am going to write something meant for twelve long months, 365 days and 8760 hours. In the next few days, I will also complete writing the first chapter of my book, the title of which is known to whom I trust the most, love the most and have faith in the most.

It was never my idea to sensationalise my blog. I just wanted to write what came to my mind. I consider http://www.bengalsurprise.blogspot.com, my most independent blog. It mirrors my thoughts, my vision and whatever goes on in my mind. Apart from this blog, I have the following blogs:

On the account of posting my 100th blog entry, I have created this new blog:

http://safarisurprise.blogspot.com/

The above is a travelogue. The first write-up, I am going to post on it is the half day Lonavala trip I took along with my friend of now 15 years on his state-of-the-art TVS Bike. In fact, I owe him a lot too. Our friendship is one of those, which is apt for a partnership. Maybe very soon, we would take a trip on bike and replicate the ‘Motorcycle Diaries’ experience.

This blog will comprise snaps, my travel experiences and much more… But I am definitely going to limit it to only travelling and everything related to travelling. If someone calls it a weird style of writing about travel, so be it.

Focusing on http://www.bengalsurprise.blogspot.com, I am very content with the style of writing, I have adapted so far. I have on/off reviewed movies. I have commented on society. I have made judgements against specific political movements. This is not just a blog for me. It is a kind of revolution. This blog is also the force, which pulled me out of my phase of depression which lasted from March 31, 2009 to October 1, 2009. It was a painful period. I had packed my bags to leave for the Himalayas. I had attempted what every human being attempts, when he/she is broke. Thanks to my mother, my friends, my family and my blog which got me back on my feet. Or else, I would have never lived to tell this tale.

I know this is the lengthiest, I have ever written and I am not finished yet. I want to take this revolution to a new level. From just being a mere blog, I want to transform it to a full fledged website and an extremely interactive one. I have seen lot of injustice. And I am not that big to comment that I have seen lot in this life. I have walked through the corridors of courts and I have run through the verandas of offices controlled by khaki clad personnel. Now neither the black suit baffles me and neither those pair of brown shoes matter to me. I am not perplexed any more by blank calls or the letter of threats that come knocking every now and then.

I have a face; I have a voice. I have a dream; I have a pair of eyes. I want just not to walk but to fly high, higher and highest.

I dedicate this 100th blog to my mother who continues tolerating me through every year I grow older and she getting older and older. She has her concerns. I understand them. And I am sure, at an apt time; I shall address them. She is a woman who has inspired me the most, supported me the most and taught me the most. Yet I remain indebted to her. Nothing can substitute her presence in my life. And I know how incomplete I am without her. I know we being human beings shall remain for each other eternally. But till the time we are together, I shall remain indebted to my mother.

This 100th blog is dedicated to all my friends.

This 100th blog is dedicated to you, my inspiration.

This 100th blog is dedicated to the reason that still pricks me from within.

This 100th entry is a symbol of my triumph over me. This 100th entry is a reply to the many questions, I keep asking myself.

I will continue on this journey of writing.
I will continue on this madness of posting.
I will continue on this eagerness of reading.
I will continue on this kick of procrastinating.

I was born a very normal guy. I pursued very normal education.

Few dreams remained unfulfilled:

Couldn’t pursue a degree in English Literature
Couldn’t complete my degree in Classical Singing
Couldn’t pursue an MA in English Literature
Couldn’t chase my dream of being a part of Prithvi Theatres

But I feel:

Dreams, never die
Desires, never diminish
Destiny, never deceives
Determination, never defers

I want to dream again.
I want to write again.
I want to triumph again.
I want to LIVE again.

I might not be there forever.
Life is very uncertain.
Today I am alive; Tomorrow I might not be alive.
What shall remain behind will be my remains, my exploits, my writings and my blog.

A labour of love, a result of anguish and an intercourse of ideas; I salute you my http://www.bengalsursprise.blogspot.com

From inception to incredibility, I remain……………………………………………..

VOCIFEROUS

PS: I hope YOU and everyone along with YOU in this world, in this universe takes note that I have finally completed my 100th entry for my blog

This 100th entry comprises: 5 pages, over 2000 words, over 9000 characters with no spaces, over 11000 characters with spaces, 102 paragraphs and 246 lines!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHEN IT RAINS (IN MUMBAI)

Dreams seem to come true in this city. People throng in to this place in search of wealth, love, home, family, destiny and what not. Every morning the long distance trains that enters Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus in Mumbai carries in them dreamers who are here to make it big. Their excitements know no limits once their feet kiss the ground beneath. Tears ooze out of the sleepless eyes to see the city they had longed for after being subjected to a series of movies made in Bollywood. Every hero who comes from a village turns big in this city. And almost every Bollywood movie has a rain sequence. Speaking about rains, Mumbai is unimaginable without its share of monsoons.

Last week, I was extremely thrilled to witness a Punjabi family that was here from US to enjoy the first few drops of rains. Marine Drive is enjoyable and so is the Worli sea face. Rains intrigue passion. And rains power the romance between two sweethearts. But with every monsoon shower that raids the city between June to September and sometimes beyond makes one wonder about how to manage it. Presently Mumbai has become extremely unmanageable during monsoons. Memories of a deluged July 26 have not yet faded from the minds of many Mumbaikars who were either stranded out of their homes or had lost everything to the waters that entered their homes and from homes to their lives and from their lives to their future.

Today the moment, it starts raining panic sets in. The first thing that goes haywire is our largest network of railways. It has been happening for a long time and authorities have been turning a blind eye towards it with a shameless smile on their thrash worthy faces. Overhead wires break off. Signals start malfunctioning. Indicators go berserk. During evenings most of the railway platforms witness a black out. Tracks are waterlogged and all you can see are hordes and hordes of people waiting for their train to arrive.

Accidents too are frequent. Roads wear a dreaded look. Potholes, manholes and every possible hole remain submerged under water. The one’s who are cautious are any ways saved. And the one’s who tend to take it a little casually has to end up paying a price of a princely nature. Sometimes life is also at stake.

Every since July 26 deluge shook the chairs beneath the red taped bureaucrats they converged some of the most destructive minds. These minds were already sick enough. But they did one good thing. All of them arrived on the banks of Mithi River and declared the once freely flowing water body the main villain behind the submergence of Mumbai. We, the people foolishly accepted their verdict and from time to time kept checking the status of how much Mithi was finally cleaned. The cost of cleaning kept increasing. Slums were uprooted. People were dislocated and Mithi was considered the root cause of Mumbai facing flash floods. But does Mithi flow around places like Thane, Vashi, Mulund, Bhandup, Ghatkopar, Kandivili, Borivili, Andheri or say Lower Parel? No!

The funniest of all during Mumbai monsoons are the uncountable news channels. A reporter or a group of reporters specially get appointed to stand in knee height dirty waters near Milan subway. The entire world by now knows that the moment Milan subway goes under water, Mumbai is finished. The world is being made an audience to this hara-kiri of very Indian flavour.

For once, it is important to think as to how and why the once enjoyable Mumbai Monsoon has suddenly transformed into a nightmare or a dreaded natural calamity. No! There is no use going to the politicians. In stead given a chance, every politician should be kicked on their butts and straight into the Mithi River. If some one is really thinking of questioning the municipal authorities, don’t be surprised to see how bad they are at crisis management. They have all been given a crash course on ‘Mithi is the Real Villain’ topic. Since I travel a lot and the local train is my safest mode of transport, I frequently come face to face with such municipal authorities. When I cross question them, the reply they have is – what have we got to do with Mother Nature’s fury? Monsoon comes, it goes. We get our salaries on time. Let the world go into a big black hole.

Mumbai sinks every year. Ten to 50 Mumbaites die every year. Five to 10 Mumbaites go missing every year. When it rains (in Mumbai), peace goes on a vacation every year. Save Mumbai by saying no to those sick plastic bags, this is the root cause of all. And avoid decorating the drains by secretly dumping them with garbage.

I love Mumbai. If you do, move your lazy butts a bit to do your bit!

Or else when it again rains (in Mumbai), we will have to see it somewhere up there because by then we would have been a victim of a manhole kept open mistakenly.

- vociferous

FACT IS STRANGER THAN FICTION

Tough times demand support, a strong support. The battles begin not on a set premise but from the homes thousands begin their lives. There are those who can and are able to fight a lone battle. And there are those, who need somebody especially family.

In recent times, I seem to be missing out on loads of news which paint a picture of a happy family. If a daughter marries of her choice and her marriage gets into trouble, the parents turn their faces away. If a son marries of his choice, he is abolished from every right he enjoys and if again the marriage is in trouble; the son is welcomed back to start a life afresh.

This is the picture of changing India. Marriages have become fragile. It is said a marriage is not between a man and a woman but between two families. But what happens when the marriage starts showing signs of trouble? In recent times, nothing happens. There are courts that are managed by guys dressed in black suits. Some are honest some are utterly disgusting. Some are interested in putting an end to a conflict at the soonest and some of them love to prolong it.

Today no one seems to be of no one. Family members pull back their support when a girl is in trouble. And for the guys too, it is getting difficult. Half of the damage can be credited to the mindless serials beamed on every Indian television set. And half of the devastation stands credit to the set of outdated laws set by some one dimensional thinkers.

In the serials that I sometimes watch I find one or the other family member trying to avenge over something. In real life, these things are happening and it is a cause for concern. The more we are getting closer to life, I am realising fact is definitely stranger than fiction. Real life stands more entangled because of circumstances! I hope you are hearing it because the only way out now is to think of an alternative that is positive, hopeful and simply favours the brighter side of life.

- vociferous

TRAUMATIC

Life is very short. One single incident or a series of unforeseen incidents can make it worse. So worse that it won’t give us even the time to blink an eye of ours. Never in my life, have I felt so helpless. But I was deeply moved when I moved into a Trauma ward of a famous hospital in Mumbai. The patient in question is a young lad not older than 25 years of age. Even though I don’t know him very closely or dearly, I felt it my responsibility to pay him a visit. I was a bit shaken on hearing that he was admitted in a government hospital and was operated, attended and cared for there.

I was prepared for the worst. I have never been abroad and neither do I see myself doing so in the next two years. But if I go, I really would like to understand how the governmental health institutions out there function. Are they in a plight of misfortune like that of our government run hospitals or they are far better than the one’s we manage to survive out here in India?

Focusing back to the patient admitted in one of the well known government run hospitals in Mumbai, I was in for a shock. The first thing that amused me was the lack of security issues. I entered the hospital from the exit or the wrong gate that too unchecked. It didn’t make any difference though because neither entry nor exit was written on the gate. On my shoulders, I was carrying a huge backpack which comprised my laptop, my portfolio and other important stuff that are required to keep me in motion. No one cared to even ask what I was carrying with me within. What was more surprising was to find a police van being parked in the premises and the cops taking no notice of me walking straight inside. This brings into light one heinous fact that Mumbai is still vulnerable to terrorist attacks. And yes, our security concerns are like toy stories.

On walking in, I headed for the trauma ward. The details provided on the board were hardly understandable. More than written, I would term it as scribbled. Names were spelt erroneously. Condition of the patient was beyond imagination to draw a conclusion. Not able to properly locate the patient’s name, I was looking for I headed a little deeper into the hospital. There was no one except some odd people waiting and squatting with their buddies or whoever that was. I found a small window open. As I peeked through it, I found a woman sitting with a magazine in her hand and headphones tucked deep into her ear listening to music played to her by her Nokia XpressMusic 5310. I politely called her as Madam. I did it twice. On understanding that either she was lost in music or just in a mood to ignore me, I banged on the wooden table placed in front of her. She leapt like she suddenly spotted a tiger. Irritated and frustrated before she could satisfy my query, she looked at her watch and only then made up her mind to present me with a reply. I politely asked her about if there was any other trauma ward apart from the one I had visited. Puzzled to the core, she first seemed to have suddenly gone blank. Finally she sprung back to life talking to me in a high tone and telling me that there was only one and why the hell was I bothering her? I apologised and cursing her from within, I went back to the trauma ward I was trying to locate the patient at. I failed once again. Finally I looked out of the door and saw his parents seated under a shade provided by some kind politician or industrialist for relatives and well wishers of those admitted inside.

The patient’s father led me to just the entrance of the ward. Being a highly sensitive ward, we were supposed to not enter it. Before I could react, the door opened and a dead body was pulled out like a fly is thrown out of a tea. The floor inside was red with blood. The moment the body reached the corridor, an elderly woman screamed out and I was deafened more by her pain rather than her voice of grief. I just caught a glimpse of the young patient who was now in a state of coma.

The patient’s parents gave me an account of what had led to the young lad’s admittance to this deathbed. It seems he is a fresh victim of flouting unmanned traffic rules. He was part of the three friend battalion riding on a bike at a speed of 70 km/hr on a rainy night. Rumours suggest they were drunk after a hard night of partying. Let me be specific, rumours suggest that they were drunk. Gossips suggest that they were just racing. Being a rainy night, the roads had turned slippery. After getting to a connecting bridge, the bike suddenly skidded off. All three of them fell of. The one who was driving got away with minor scratches. The third sitting on the rearmost position had to sacrifice with 2 of his left leg fingers and 1 of his right leg fingers. The second person who was sitting in the middle who happens to be our neighbour’s son and the patient in coma was badly hit. He fell while in motion and his head banged straight into the divider. Within seconds, the skull was left open. Blood oozed out and he slipped into a state of unconsciousness. In the dead of night, he was transported from the site of accident to this horrendous site of struggle.

From within, I was shaken about the patient’s war with life and death. And on the other hand I was very angry looking at the plight of the hospital. I felt even if little hope is left for a patient to survive, the deteriorating reputation of this hospital would definitely shatter every single ray of hope. I was seeing patients with saline needles on their forearms running behind doctors. I was seeing women with tears in their eyes running behind ward boys. And I was seeing one after the other patient brought in some strange, serious and most injuriously critical conditions. There were my patient’s parents who seemed to be equipped enough to make a choice between the dying and the dead. I consoled them and advised them to be strong. The patient’s father told me how everything within the hospital is connected. Nothing seems to function smoothly in here. Either palms are to be greased or tough contacts are to be used to make your case rolled ahead.

As I prepared to leave the premise, I saw some guys and girls maybe in their 20s jumping traffic in front of the hospital. The cops seem to be more interested in the revealing outfits of the strange girls rather than in performing their duties. I missed a heartbeat when I saw them cross the road and escape being hit by the running vehicles. One of the girls’s even dared to exclaim, “It went so closely, I thought it had almost touched me. But anything for a pizza date!” I was stunned but could do very less. Their fate hung between the raging road, the frightening footpath and the traumatic place called Government Hospital.

I left with a heavy heart, looking up to the sky and praying to God for a miracle. I wish the prayer gets answered. If not a miracle at least the plight of government hospitals get a little better to help people live a little better life. I have nothing against the doctors because to me they seemed like a group of astronauts who were warming up there to take a leap into the sector of private practicing.

Certainly traumatic but not laughable at all! The pain I felt most was of the bleeding hearts of the parents of the lad who was admitted in that rotten government run hospital!

- vociferous

A PROMISE WELL KEPT

Indescribable…
Rains couldn’t have got that worse like it did that day.
Roads were getting waterlogged.
Trains had started running late.
Almost every source of transport had started plying behind schedule.
But then there are those who are determined to fulfil promises.
I know a person who braved the odds.
Thunderstorms and thundering are specific reasons for that person to be scared of.
Rains are not that bad. But when it is about a promise and the rains threaten to dampen it; risks run higher.
Though it was decided to make it at 5.30 pm, some commitments led to 6.30 pm.
Mumbai by then was under the influence of heavy rains.
Drenched and completely clueless, the wait was going to be longer.
Pritish Nandy’s new book of poems ‘Again’ was the only option that made things lighter.
And finally the keeper of promise appeared.
I saw a soul drenched in rain and I saw a mind drenched in thoughts.
There was nothing less but a smile that lightened the moment.
To sum it up, I had no second thoughts that a promise was well kept.
Indebted for life… Trust me!

- vociferous

CASTE-OFF

The title of this blog is the title of the fifteenth chapter in Jeffrey Archer’s newly released book of short stories ‘And Thereby Hangs a Tale’.

There is a specific reason of me deciding to zero in on the title of this blog. And the intention is also particularly specific for me being Jeffrey Archer’s biggest fan.

I discovered Jeffrey Archer by accident for sure. It was I think seven years back. I was stuck in office due to rains. There was nothing particular to be done. It was drizzling out and from that office in suburban Mumbai; all I could see was tiny droplets of rain. The mood was extremely romantic. But at the very same time I was going through the roughest patch of my life. It was raining and the rain showed no signs of stopping. I thought of staying back a little long and accidentally my eyes fell on a book with an interesting title Sons of Fortune, which was released in 2003. This happened to be my first encounter with my all time favourite author.

I never could read a single page of it and then the time came when Jeffrey Archer released his book A Prisoner of Birth in 2008. I was at Kemps Corner waiting for a friend of mine. I had to kill some time and I thought of taking a look at the new arrivals in Crosswords Book Store. Everywhere I could see one book that was displayed proudly and that was A Prisoner of Birth. I grabbed a copy of it and sat at a corner flipping through the pages. By the time, I reached on page fifty; I decided to buy it. I was definitely carried away.

I came home and couldn’t separate myself from the book for the next four days. After I finished it, I knew I had found a writer I am going to call one of my favourite authors and a prolific storyteller. In a short span of time he released Paths of Glory in 2009. He visited India and I still regret having missed the opportunity of meeting my favourite writer.

Today I have a collection of most of his books. And I am waiting to own a copy of his all time hit Kane and Abel which was released way back in 1980 when I had been just two years old. A friend of mine has suggested waiting a little. He seems to be having the first original copy of it, which he feels, would be proud to gift me once he returns from New York. Even if he doesn’t I shall buy the latest edition which was launched a few months back.

Focusing on ‘And Thereby Hangs a Tale’ and the fifteenth & the last story of the book, which is based in India; I was deeply moved. Titled Caste-Off, it narrates the love story of Nisha and Jamwal. They meet up at a traffic signal in the every busy vehicle heavy road of Delhi. Both end up racing their cars. Jamwal follows Nisha into the hotel, she checks in. And Jamwal decides, Nisha is the girl he will make his life partner.
Jamwal is a Rajputana Prince with a fortune to die for. He is flamboyant and has affairs with the best of women. Nisha on the other hand is the daughter of Shyam Chaudhary and believes in living a life of content. When they meet up at a party they both are in love with their respective partners. One day, Nisha leaves for San Francisco and Jamwal follows her all the way till there. She is surprised and thinks, is he the man? Jamwal is a favourite with gossip columnists for his involvement with women. Nisha is but smitten. Finally both decide to get married. Nisha’s parents are more than happy to see their daughter being married off to a prince of a Rajput clan.

Jamwal returns home to Jaipur for his parents’ final consent. During his visit, his mom declares that they have found him a royal bridal match. Jamwal decides to defy his father, his mother and his entire family to begin life with Nisha. His father abolishes him from any claims to be made to their family assets. Jamwal and Nisha get married and fly off to Goa for a lovely honeymoon. Jamwal pursues Nisha to join him for a swim. Nisha disagrees. Jamwal still takes a plunge into the swimming pool and after some time, Nisha sees blood floating on the surface. The story seems to end there. But then enters Jeffrey’s mastery art of storytelling. Jeffrey himself makes an entry in the story of Jamwal and Nisha. He confesses that he shamelessly flirted with Nisha and found it strange that Jamwal was never discomforted. The party gets over. Every one leaves. Jamwal sits there only to be helped by Nisha on a wheelchair. The accident at the swimming pool left Jamwal paralysed for life. Childless but very much in love, Jamwal and Nisha continue to live a life of content.

I was moved by the story very deeply. Here are two people in love who know no boundaries. Jamwal’s handicap could have been a reason enough for Nisha’s departure from his life. But Nisha never forgot Jamwal’s sacrifice. I wish love in real life could have been that real. By the way Jeffrey tells us that this is a true story. If this is a real story, let me tell you – LOVE IS WONDERFUL. One should only have the courage to support the partner he or she is in love with.

Saluting Jeffrey Archer to make me believe in love again… I sign off saying Love is Beautiful so Life is Immensely Beautiful! (I hope you heard that… )

Jeffrey Archers book of short stories - ‘And Thereby Hangs a Tale’: Strongly Recommended!

- vociferous

MOTIVATE/INSPIRE SOME ONE

It doesn’t require a fortune to motivate/inspire some one. It certainly does require a little bit of effort. But the effort has to be genuine because some one relies on us. As human beings we are not born with negative thoughts in our minds. Circumstances, situations and many other factors inject negativity and therefore we end up thinking drastically different from how we should be thinking.

The world I feel is made up of two varieties of people. One variety is of those who are eager to think positive and do positive things. The other variety is of those who need a little bit of help to think positive and do positive things. At times, we fail to notice that even our closest friend might be in need of some motivation or inspiration to achieve feats, which he/she thinks are of impossible nature.

To begin with, the first and foremost thing one needs to do is sacrifice, surrender and submerge the little bit of attitude or arrogance to be of help to others. Yes it is necessary. Personally I have realised when I was driven or overpowered by my ego, things never worked out. Leave alone motivating or inspiring others, I was considered nothing less than a dread factor. But it is better to wake up before irreparable damage is done to your own self or to the people around you.

I suggest when any of us as human beings start our day, we should say to ourselves – LET’S MOTIVATE/INSPIRE SOME ONE TODAY. Simultaneously we should also pray to God to give us the courage, strength, determination and willingness to do so. If you endeavour to do it half heartedly, believe me you would neither motivate nor inspire. All that you will end up doing is making that some one feel more miserable.

Insecurities definitely surround us when we take the onus of going ahead with the task of motivating/inspiring some one. Does that mean you should remain indifferent? Certainly not! Genuine souls always make it a point to remember that motivation/inspiration till the end of their life. And even if they don’t, we should make ourselves understand and stay happy that whatever he/she is achieving, has achieved or will be achieving has been possible because of your presence. Not everyone is on the scene. I believe the real motivators/inspirers are those who toil behind the scene. Popularity, fame, wealth may not or never come their way for all the good work they do. But the biggest treasure being a motivator/inspirer you can earn is Trust. There is nothing precious than trust. Once you inculcate it and work towards nurturing it, a lot of difference can be made.

Yesterday I motivated and inspired some one. It was a great feeling of satisfaction and fulfilment. I was equally elated to know the accolades that followed. I am sure in the near future that person will never fall short of motivation/inspiration. All it required was a start. All it required was a trigger to inject the confidence. Facing an audience is no child’s play. Stage fright or the sudden fear of forgetting well rehearsed lines sometimes might make the confidence dip. But once you speak out valiantly even in front of a handful people, I say half of the job is done. Because by now you have earned confidence to face the odds and even it as per your will, desire and vision.

So, no need to shy away. Make it a point to motivate/inspire some one. If not with royal rewards, you will definitely be compensated with two things – Trust for Life and an Everlasting Smile of Confidence from your benefactor.

- vociferous

TIME TO THINK POSITIVE

It was once a choice of my real self, I had decided to retreat and coil in to a cocoon. But I failed miserably. I was surrounded by my well wishers through out my conquest for the real meaning of life. I had once decided to renounce everything and take the journey to the foothills of Himalayas. A friend rightly remarked – The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari effect. To some extent, it was! But then I was going through a phase when nothing seemed real. I had by then once decided to detach myself from the unrealities of universal nature.

I shut myself from the world. I made up my mind to never switch on my cell phone. I was enjoying my solitary confinement. I spoke very less and I sat quietly looking at people around me. People gazed at me in surprise when they saw me sitting on a railway platform spending time looking at the trains passing. I also mustered the courage to board the train to Kolkata and sheepishly alighted at Kasara. Something was holding me back. I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong.

Life had started acting strange. Similarly I too had started acting strange. Nothing interested or impressed me. I was shocked to realize how easily I had given up writing, listening to music, watching movies, meeting friends and expressing my views on love, life & luck. I then heard a voice of oneness from three of my best friends. They said, “Wake up; it is time to think positive”.

I said to myself it is time to think positive. The energy of thinking that I felt I had lost was back. One of my friends remarked, “The Bengal Tiger has started moving in the cage restlessly to prepare for a hunt”. I was never a tiger. I can never challenge nature’s other creations. But I could feel that how weak I had grown when I had started thinking negative. It was this particular phase I lost friends and I sacrificed some of the finest moments of happiness.

I still remember one of my old friends who saw me with beard on my face and screamed, “Eeks! Is that you?” I remained silent. I knew it was all about my own negativity. But once that phase got over, I was back on the aisle of what seemed like invincibility. My ascent had already started becoming a threat to the one’s who had taken control of things during my psychological absence in the real/unreal world. I announced that I was back to stay longer, fight longer and achieve bigger.

Destiny had something else on its mind. Jealousy, insecurity and incapability of others somehow tried to mar my reputation. I only followed one ideology – Think Positive. So much positive was I that when I met new people, made new friends, mobilized new conversations; I realized that I was taken notice of.

Today I am stuck in a moment that was once negative. But the time has come to again think positive. To protect certain relations, it is the need of the moment to think positive. The past really has passed away! It is all about the present and the future. I am not going to coil into a cocoon. I have vowed not to give up any more. It is my self assigned responsibility to make things the way they were or used to be during that once moment of negativity. If that means apologizing over a million numbers of times, I am ready to do so. If that means renouncing everything once again, I am ready to do so. The only desire is to put misunderstandings, misconceptions and miscommunications to rest. I have started doing that by reconnecting with those with whom I had once broken all my ties.

Time will stand witness to how much justice I do to my vision. But I am sure now that I have started thinking positive, things won’t be that complicated! One mighty force which remains with me is God himself. His miracles don’t create a sound, thunder or a visual impact. The Almighty is the most secretive operator, I have ever discovered. Had He not been around or within every human being, positive thinking would have become a thing of the past! He is invisible, he is untraceable, he is an entity with no specific structure. But he is around.

Paying my respect to God and offering my prayers to the Supreme Power above us, I once again say to myself – It is time to think positive. I know all that I had lost will come back to me. Be it friendship, success, love, power or whatever else. I am waiting because I know I am thinking positive and positivists never are known for giving up but are known for taking life to a new level of self actualization. The clock is ticking. And I am thinking positive. Join me to think, do, create and make possible a lot of positive things around us.

Love you the most; I might have hurt the most! I am extremely sorry!

- vociferous

I OWE A LOT

Life has been like a roller coaster ride. There have been happier, lovelier, sadder and lonelier moments. Thinking in the retrospective, I sometimes feel how much I have done justice to those moments.

These moments were not automatic. But these moments were and I still consider are a product of my deeds. In short, I owe a lot to those who made a difference to my life.

My life began say 29 years back when I really started knowing the things around me. The excitement of making friends was simply indescribable. Friendship kept growing till suddenly I never realized that even that is so short-lived. Still I would say school was the real midpoint to form bonds for life.

After school, it was college and the years just flew away. Luckily all that was left behind was a bond of true friendship. Some betrayed, some abandoned and some simply chose to ignore. Still I clung on to that hope of staying positive in life.

College was over. The time had come to explore myself and the skills I had honed to earn myself a livelihood. My dad was so right. The honeymoon period was over. This was the real world. The real world stood in front of me like a mirror. In this mirror I saw my face. I was myself not sure whether this face belonged to me or my body belonged to that face.

The journey of true life thus commenced. To begin with the first job I took over was like a laboratory. Here I met people of all sorts. From good to the best to the excellent and to the super excellent, they were all made of traits I had never known. Some made me smile, some made me feel nervous. But at the end of the day, it was life unlimited. One human being who still remains a part of my life is the memory of a certain Mr. Rao or I still respectfully address his Raosahab. This man taught me that take life the way it comes to you and never expect anything from anybody.

Even though I had ignored Raosahab and his courteous wife’s proposition to fly with them off to Dubai, I still couldn’t convey to them how much I owed them. Till date, Raosahab’s impact hasn’t found a substitute in my mind. He was invincible. He was terrific. At times, I used to secretly wish – God make me like him. Committed to his wife, to this son and to his family, Raosahab led me like an elder brother does to his younger brother. He gave me the name – Puru.

I owe a lot to him.

And then there are those who chose to first come to my life as friends and then made me realize even friends can wear masks. I wish I had self cautioned me. These were not friends but elements which resembled like friends. Luckily they left as faster as they had arrived. Once again only the true form of friendship was left and still remains with me. I met such friends yesterday. I realized the world is not that bitter as it seems to. I wish I had never lost out on the years of absence from their lives or their absence in my life. They are very close to me. I would never want to lose them. They are the one’s who make me feel the real me. When I get home, they put me a sms saying that it feels great to reunite and they sign off saying – let there be more such moments.

Friends, I owe a lot to you all. (I don’t wish to take names because they will understand I am talking about them. They are that dear to me.)

I have been equally responsible for causing pain to those who never deserved it. Some spoke out loud and some chose to whisk out quietly. One of them said that arrogance never suited me. That person also added that the little amount of arrogance made me ruin my own happiness. And I realize how my own arrogance had caused that human being the deepest pain. Today when I come face to face with that person, I ask myself what did I achieve or gain out of the way I behaved! The reply is simple – nothing. I know however hard I try that person will keep going back to that juncture of disbelief when I was so indifferent. My own deed is irreversible and the guilt is unfathomable.

I owe that person a lot. I owe that person a lot because that person hasn’t changed a bit from the time I had decided I shall never speak to that person.

I have changed. I imagine or speculate that I have changed. A little amount of arrogance might have held my mind hostage for some while. But I fought it out, buried it deep and moved ahead to be with the ones, I consider my own.

At the end, it’s my life. I owe it a lot. Though it has been gifted to me by my parents who brought me to this world, I feel I still owe it a lot. The sacrifices that my dad made when he was alive and the adjustments that my mother keeps making are simply indescribable.

Dad never was vocal. He was in complete control of his emotions, expressions and even expectations. Mom has always been a friend and continues to be so. At the end of the day however busy I am, I come back to her. She makes me feel great. Even though she gets stressed, worried when I am not around her; she manages to sport a smile and tells me – You are back my son.

I owe a lot to you Maa and to you Dad up there! My dad is up there listening to me. He is seeing his son. Some say, I have his face and I look like him. But I say, he was the one and only Dad I would love to have as my dad for every life and my mom the only mom for every life.

I do owe a lot to all…!

- vociferous

SOME THINGS IN LIFE REMAIN UNDONE

Seven years is a long time. So long is it that minds tend to fall short of memories. So long is it that relationships go through sea change. So long is it that we grow immune to our own surroundings.

Seven years just passed away like the fistful of sand, we tried our level best to hold but it just slipped away. One thing is for sure that time never stands still. It moves, it keeps moving and along with time, move us!

I remember only the train and the passenger who left with an unfulfilled aspirations and too much of pain in heart thinking how can a person’s attitude be so overpowering & mightier! The eyes had swelled with tears and the heart might have ached so much that she had remained speechless.

After seven years, the same passenger alighted from not a train but a taxi and had become a traveler. In the last seven years one thing that has not changed about her is the smile and the free flowing hair. From a distance, all one can see of her was a serene and composed personality who stood their waiting for somebody.

Time seemed to be coming to a standstill but there were so many questions to be asked and so many answers to be found out. Every question traveled back to that juncture of separation seven years back and every reply was centered on the present. The conversations might have begun with a Smiling Hi but the farewell didn’t signoff with a Smiling Bi.

To arrive at a conclusion all that can be said of those seven years that some things remained undone. Had time taken the two back to that juncture, maybe things would have been different. If the person bidding farewell from the platform could have boarded the same train and held her hands, seven years would have not just passed away in remembrances, in pains and in expectations.

Life might have moved on but the conscience within keeps reminding that some things still remain undone. Now that the wait is over, maybe the two of them can look ahead to more questions and more answers.

The smiles that had once faded were back on faces. Moments that had run out of magic had turned magical again. The sun was setting, the skies had turned cloudier and the birds were heading home too.

After an entire day of smiles, tears and a promise to see each other again, they departed.

But one of them still left with a heavy heart and went to the same platform; the train had left from seven years back. He spent two hours recollecting what had happened and once the mistake was realized, he moved on. And just then the mobile rang. The voice on the other end was smiling too…!

The above is just an account of two strangers who never were strangers but very much in love till destiny did them apart and brought them together AGAIN!

- vociferous

THE FIRST & SECOND CLASSED POPULOUS

The British seem to have introduced class divide in India. I have my doubts. Going by the way, we travel in Mumbai in cramped trains; I believe the greater divide rests here. The city just doesn’t fail to surprise me every time that I hop onto one of those trains. After I make my way in, I repent my decision of traveling in that certain class. The divide begins here and promises never to die or diminish.

Local trains, considered the lifeline of Mumbai are segregated into first, second and third class. While I am pretty comfortable with the first two, the third one stands for the luggage or the vendor coach. This is no different coach but a part of any of the coach we travel in. Entering into one of these is perfectly suicidal, if you plan taking a morning train down to suburbs from Mumbai CST. Because during this hour, not people but fishes of every big and small varieties travel in these compartments. They are preserved beneath thick layers of battered ice and stored in round bamboo baskets. They travel under tight security, provided by the accompanying fish selling women and the porters who will drag the baskets down the compartment once the train comes to a final halt. Being the third class, no one is generous enough to take a ride in it. In fact, these compartments emit a strange stink for the entire day. Sometimes, they stink of fish, sometimes sweat and sometimes beetle stains left behind by generous travelers.

Next in the category comes the second class. This class outdoes every other class in the train. In these coaches travel the hardworking populous. They aren’t strugglers but potential achievers. They speak the local lingo. They are crowded with secularists. There exist no distinctions on grounds of caste, creed or sex. Birthdays are celebrated by distributing potato stuffed and steamed samosas and thirsts quenched by extra bottles of water carried by fellow travelers. Ladies are offered seats on priority basis. Their cleavages are gaped at with special fervor. Seats are abandoned on a station to station interval basis. Abuses are hurled without any reservations, reluctance or rigidity. This is the class of complete equality. Like they say, “In Gods eyes every one stands equal”. The second class is available to both males and females. Every day millions cling out of the doors and also the windows of the second classes. Every single moment two trains pass each other. All one can hear of during those magical moments are cat calls from gents compartments piercing the atmosphere and entering straight into the ladies compartment of the opposite train. If lucky, one can also take the liberty of making lewd gestures. Then there are ‘Me also Tarzan’ moments. Desperados can be spotted jumping over roof. Records show that every day major accidents are caused when one of those jumping jacks fall off the train’s roof or get electrocuted. But who cares, this is Mumbai that never fails to celebrate the undying spirit of life.

First class is the only compartment, which pretends to stand out. The first classes have been in the recent times stripped of their privileged status. Day by day with the increasing pressure of population in Mumbai, people are highly in favor the first class rather than attempting to sweat it out in a clumsy second class compartment. The ladies first class compartments have still maintained their uniqueness. The men might have silenced their resistance but women in Mumbai are hell bent not to allow their privilege to be taken for granted. There is no scope left for second class travelers to even land up erroneously in one of these gifted compartments. And if they manage, the women travelers make it a point to yell at the peak of their voice exclaiming – Arey yeh first class hai, special dibba (this is the first class, a special compartment). Every morning, it is an adventurous moment to see the women pour into their a little bigger than a pigeon’s hole first class compartment. This is followed by a strange gesture of pointing finger guns at each other. These gestures are necessary to understand and gauge the time each lady passenger would need to occupy a seat. This practice is religiously followed in the second class ladies coaches too. Some women, even though dressed well prefer to sit down rather than wait endlessly for a cushion seat.

Men on the other hand in first class are the breed that God might have developed to represent the real class divide. Conversations are scarce. Expectations of occupying a favorable seat always remain unfulfilled. The movement is very rigid. Strange looks are exchanged if appeals are made to demand a seat. Sometimes laptops and most of the times a game of cards festoon the not so plush interiors of first class compartments. Most of the communication is done through eyes and expressions. Still travelers who travel in a group are ending up creating that little bit of never heard noise in the first class compartments. Unlike ladies first class, there are no finger guns pointed out here.

In Mumbai’s first class gents’ compartments, one thing that every one dies to be a part of is the video coaches. All second thoughts of getting to see video must be trashed without further consideration. These video coaches are those which are an open window partition between the male and female first class compartment. Millions of love stories have taken place over these single windows. And definitely the same windows have ended up being reasons of lust worthiness. Newspapers have carried out articles on wrong conduct and incessant teasing of women by white collared men. This doesn’t mean that the women are less generous. Sometimes gestures and expressions made by men meet with equal amount of good response from the fairer sex.

Today therefore Mumbai stands divided. This is a city, which might be categorized in many different classes. But when a bomb explodes or the motormen go on an indefinite strike, the class divide disappears. Differences are buried down and the city springs back to action. Crisis management techniques do come easy and a tough night of terrorist attack is also dealt with gutsy attitude. Maybe that is the reason, Mumbai goes to sleep terrified. The night grows darker and murkier. And then the sun wakes them up to live a new life. Once again, Mumbai gets ready to stand divided into First and the Second class. But the journey is a kaleidoscope of what is known to the entire world as Mumbai Magic!

Just another way to say, Mumbai is still the best city in this world and continues to stay at its prime 24x7.

- vociferous

THE OBNOXIOUS MR. AAYDAL

The biggest threat to a writer is Mr. Aaydal walking into his/her life. He has a weird face much worse than the most dreaded monsters described in old legends. Mr. Aaydal is an expert in adapting himself to the changing tides of time. He positions himself in every agency/corporate house/communication designers, where writers are found slogging it hard to make ends meet. His grim appearance sends shivers down the spines of writers. Be it in the brightness of a day or in the darkness of a night, Mr. Aaydal becomes the shadow of a writer.

People are always found talking or being very curious about how Mr. Aaydal finds his way into swanky offices. These offices are no less than digital fortresses that are protected by password complying doorways. Passwords can never shoo off Mr. Aaydal. He is ageless and has lived eternally through the times; civilisation started taking shape in this world. Mr. Aaydal has always been interested in the form of writing and has been on a mission to challenge the existence of writers.

Mr. Aaydal has found a mention in the writings of modern and ancient authors. He is strategic. He stages his inception in great style. Once he finds a place in the writer’s life, nothing of the writer is spared. Slowly, Mr. Aaydal starts manipulating the writer’s actions. He wrongs every right and imperfects the perfection. He has exterminated the mightiest and the weakest of writers. The weakest could not face the force; Mr. Aaydal has always subjected them to. The mightiest did try to resist but in the end gave up.

Writers who committed heinous crimes, attempted suicide, slaughtered their pens, immolated their manuscripts or suffered a paralysis attack always wished they would never had allowed Mr. Aaydal to gatecrash into their lives. They had no choice because Mr. Aaydal just entered their lives.

Mr. Aaydal has also from time to time helped employers or publishers to do away with writers. He has self appointed himself and vowed to make life miserable for numerous writers. Mr. Aaydal is an expert in self cloning too. He can be found all over the world at the same time, causing harm to writers. Some debate, Mr. Aaydal is a myth. But very few know he is a harsh reality and a dark truth. Experts protest that Mr. Aaydal doesn’t self invite but is welcomed by writers to shun the chores they are entrusted with. Mr. Aaydal conspires, Mr. Aaydal threatens and Mr. Aaydal devastates. Especially when it is appraisal time, Mr. Aaydal activates his venom filled lungs and spits on the many performance sheets of writers. This leads to two probabilities: 1) Dismissal and 2) Demotion. After a final decision of the writer’s fate is being conveyed to him, he gets a nausea attack. As the writer steps out of the cubicle to run towards the restroom, Mr. Aaydal prevents him from making it on time. The writer collapses on his knees and starts pleading to Mr. Aaydal that he wants to survive for his own self, for his family. But Mr. Aaydal doesn’t believe in mercy. He only believes in merciless tactics. Mr. Aaydal makes a roll of unattended papers then thrusts it into the mouth of the writer. The writer starts choking. His eyes start showing towards the sky and turn bloodshot. The writer starts experiencing insurmountable pain. His nerves and veins poised tend to burst out. His heart starts pounding ceaselessly. Suddenly he plunges into darkness and couldn’t let the vomit eject out of his mouth. Mr. Aaydal starts putting pressure on the writer’s throat, keeps pressing it and gains success in killing the writer.

After this ghastly act, Mr. Aaydal stands firm on his feet. He takes a few step then turns back to see if the writer is dead or alive. If he senses a movement, he waits and once again tries to strangulate the writer till he breathes his last. Mr. Aaydal then finally stands up, kicks the writer’s body to confirm that it is lifeless then smartly walks out of the office in search of his next target, the next writer, the next victim.

The above mentioned technique of murder is just one of the favourite techniques; Mr. Aaydal is very fond of to slay writers. His other techniques are far more heinous. The most affluent the writer, the most brutal is the death.

Mr. Aaydal refuses to leave this world because he too is under a spell to destroy writers. But he never repents his action. He was created to make writers understand that hard work is always not rewarded with precious rewards. Mr. Aaydal is not a friend, he is a foe. I being a writer myself feel too vulnerable to Mr. Aaydal. Though he is supposed to arrive unannounced, I can sense he is very much around. I am equally tense how brutal he would be, when it comes to me being a victim of his outrage and his mission to silence writers like us.

Let God be with the writers.

- vociferous

MUMBAI-YOURS OURS MINE HIS HERS OR WHOMSOEVERS

The spirit of Mumbai is omnipresent amongst all of us, who have made this lovely city a home to dwell in. Proudly we proclaim Aaamchi Mumbai. But ever since this fervour towards the city has started gaining political momentum, the threat of losing out in a city of dreams continually hovers on our heads.

Experts believe the change in name has stripped the city of its gothic character. But it is equally interesting to discover, in this city business continues as usual. A particular faction might be against interstate migrations but the authority to oppose seems to have automatically slipped into the hands of the less opportune! The less opportune are characters, which we bump into knowingly/unknowingly. Over 80% of these characters travel by Mumbai’s lifeline – The Local Train. Mumbai’s railway network which is divided into three zones namely the central, the western and the harbour lines cater to the gusty motion of local trains throughout the day.

I, vociferous am a regular traveller of the central railway network. Every morning the train I take from my place of residence to the place of my work, is sometimes pleasantly packed and occasionally over packed. The real problem is with the travellers who prefer to take a back journey from starting point even though the train takes a halt at their station just 4 minutes later. Luckily being loosely associated with the so called group/gang, I enjoy the privilege of occupying a comfortable corner to squeeze in and start reading a book. The conversations between the members of this group/gang range from the usual profanities to female gazing and to the right to be a Mumbaikar. It was one such day, the journey began. I was hooked on to Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City-Bombay Lost & Found. The doorway was blocked by the frail as air Mr. More, the dumb as blonde Sarkar (addressing him as Mr. is extremely suicidal), the notorious as Dennis Sardarji and the agitated as a street fighter Mr. Transport Agency Executive (He prefers to wear a watch that has the BSE logo on it).

The train came to a halt at the second station. As usual, travellers barged in like this was The Last Train to Pakistan. Some fell down, which in many ways has become a tradition now. Some stumbled. Bags got stuck. Neckties strangled their owners to death. The burden of laptops squeezed the marketing guys to a miniscule pie. The senior citizens sounded resistive for being ill treated time and again by those greedy to grab the window seat. The door blockers raised their voice by yelling, “Enough Pressure. Now No More”!

Sudden influx of passengers in bulk sparked a conversation over how Mumbai got so populated over a span of 24 hours. I was luckily engaged in my book. At the third station, some more displayed their expertise of holding a train hostage and endangering the lives of fellow passengers. The circus continued at the fourth and the fifth station too. I wonder why the British engineers who had designed this railway network never ever had considered the fact that they were creating a Frankenstein monster. As the train’s speed accelerated, a guy who has started joining us in this train for the past few weeks pulled out a bunch of papers from his backpack. On these papers were written codes, hardly of any significance to me. For the first time, I inquired with him, “What are these”? He gently replied, “Programme Instructions. We have designed a new database system that will be installed today and thereafter we have a presentation to make. So before reaching office, I chose to improvise so that I am self updated.” I wished him good luck and the train experienced a jerk. Due to this volatile jerk, the edge of the papers held by this computer guy collided against Mr. Transport Agency’s neck. Outraged and bereaved, he turned back and in his goon toned voice threatened this guy to take care. Trying his best to control a second collision, this computer guy once again couldn’t help holding his papers back which hurt Mr. Transport Agency’s (TA) neck. Turning his head, Mr. TA started abusing him. Mr. Nice Guy apologised. But Mr. TA was not in a mood to give up. He took the conversation to an entirely different level. His first object of hatred was me. Pointing at me, he told the fellow travellers that this arrogant bookworm is the trendsetter. Mr. TA then trained his guns on Mr. Nice Guy. The first word of abuse to find an exit from Mr. TA’s foully mouth was directed to a sister’s modesty. The second abuse was directed towards the parents who committed the mistake of giving Mr. Nice Guy his life. The third was a voice of concern over the pressure increasing on Mumbai. Mr. TA felt and also garnered support that Mr. Nice Guy is the main reason behind Mumbai’s swelling populous of frustrated non performers. Quite proficient in Hindi, Mr. TA said, “Pataa nahi saaley kaha sey aa jaatey hai Mumbai mein gandagi failaaney” (There is no clue about where these stupid people land up from in Mumbai and start spreading untidiness). To which, Mr. Nice Guy replied, “Boss! “Pehle apney aapp ke andar jhaanko phir bolo” (Boss! First self analyse yourself then talk out). The argument came to an end with Mr. TA threatening of bashing Mr. Nice Guy after both alight at the sixth station.

Some travellers eagerly awaited a major showdown while I almost knew what the conclusion would be. The train came to a halt. All of us, we jumped out of the train and Mr. TA caught hold of Mr. Nice Guy’s well ironed shirt’s collar. The conversation started with abuses to mother, father, sister and some more objectionable mentions. Mr. Nice Guy was calm but Mr. TA was all charged up to train his muscles, which have been lying idle over a period of time. Luckily a senior citizen intervened and brought the situation under control. Mr. TA departed with a threat to strike back while Mr. Nice Guy stood shaken. I preferred neither to console nor to empathise with the wrong doer or the right doer. Even though I am a part of this group/gang, I don’t make myself felt belonged to it. I sped towards the bridge, climbed the staircase, cut through the crowd and finally exited the bulging-to-explode railway station to attain solace in my otherwise hostile workplace.

From the entire circus like situation, I could not figure out how Mumbai formed the core of the argument. We are all travellers. Our journey of a little over thirty minutes is meant for livelihood. During the entire journey, we don’t discriminate on grounds of religion, race, caste or creed. But the commoditisation of this city of dreams has already started making us pay a princely price.

Mumbai as a city belongs to whom? Does it belong to the current breed of politicians who have preferred to milk all its resources and leave it lifeless? Does it belong to the fanatics who regularly make it a point to plant bombs at crowded places and endanger innocent lives? Does it belong to the local citizens who keep spitting on the walls painstakingly painted by frail framed labourers? Does it belong to the rich who get drunk at a rave party and prefer to drive on bodies lying lifelessly on pavements? Or does it belong to the creators of this city who are long dead and maybe twisting & turning in their graves faced with the irony of this situation?

To conclude, Mumbai belongs to somebody or nobody and is just a commercial hub to earn a livelihood!

- vociferous